


Running Up That Hill

by Bethe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Also the intimacy of saying names....., Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, The intimacy of having someone taking care of your injuries, also jaskier gets to rant bc god knows he deserves it, geralt needs help, geralt needs to stop being an emotionally constipated asshole, jaskier can wield a sword bc its sexy and i say so, jaskier deserves an apology, jaskier has a past..., jaskier has more than one fight in him, jaskier is going through it :(, jaskier is not as incompetent as he might seem to be, no beta we die like men, the intimacy of sharing a sword..., will jaskier and geralt ever get down this mountain? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethe/pseuds/Bethe
Summary: Jaskier leaves Geralt high on top of the mountain, but realizes that their story cannot end like this. When Jaskier does decide to find Geralt, he discovers that Geralt is a wanted man, and might be in mortal danger. Will they ever make it down the mountain, with adversaries looking for revenge?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	1. Mountain At My Gates

“See you around, Geralt.”  


So that was it, huh. After years of travelling together, fighting monsters, and sometimes people, too, that was it. Geralt had had enough of Jaskier, finally snapping at the bard. The bard knew it was not him the Witcher was really angry at. He knew Geralt was angry at himself. Angry at himself for the pain he had caused Yennefer, but most of all, for the pain he had caused for himself. Jaskier knew it was easier for Geralt to blame it on him, than for the Witcher to admit everything that happened was largely Geralt’s own fault. Sure, Jaskier had been there at the banquet in Cintra, setting in motion a series of events that would end up with Geralt having a child surprise. Sure, he was there when the Djinn was set loose, but it was not him who wished for himself to almost die. Neither did he wish for Yennefer and Geralt to meet like they had. Nor did he force to Geralt to make his third wish. And, finally, he was definitely not to blame for everything that happened on the mountain. Jaskier had even tried to stop everything from happening, vividly protesting going on the hunt. But no, Geralt simply had to go when he saw Yennefer. Typical. He was not blameless, but he should not have to take the blame. And yet, that was what Geralt had done. He had blamed Jaskier for everything, lashing out at him because Geralt knew, deep down, that he had fucked up.  


And Jaskier had had enough, too, which is why he left before Geralt could apologize. He wanted to leave, to get the fuck down this mountain, and as far away from the Witcher as possible. He was angry, too, angry at Geralt for being such an emotionally constipated idiot. For being an absolute asshole. For being blind to what was really happening. Witchers were apparently not supposed to feel. Jaskier called bullshit. He knew that was not true, Geralt even having admitted himself that yes, Witchers did feel emotions. But sometimes it seemed like Geralt had forgotten that other people felt, too. Jaskier could not nor should not shoulder all of the blame.  


So, Jaskier had walked away. Maybe, if he just kept moving, he could stop thinking about what just happened. If he could keep moving, he could move on from the Witcher. There was nothing he would rather do, but yet, as he slowly started to make his way down to the camp they had slept at the night before, something started to ache deep within him. He kept walking, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to walk away from the top of the mountain, where everything had gone to shit.  


The bard thought he could hear the faint echoes of cheerful voices further down the hill. Probably the dwarves, celebrating their prize, the esteemed dragon teeth. They had not even fought, yet reaped all the rewards. But that was not what bothered Jaskier, as he listened to the faint echoes disappear slowly. It bothered him that the dwarves could continue their lives like they had before they went up on this cursed mountain, like nothing had happened. He could not. He was used to dwelling the Continent, together with the Witcher. Or dwelling alone, composing his music and visiting towns all over. But even when he would dwell alone, he had the comfort that he would meet the Witcher from time to time, and travel with him, both for inspiration, and for friendship. Now, that had all been lost. He had nothing to look forward to, really. Despite his outgoing and flirtatious personality, Jaskier had few friends. He had no place to call home, no one to call family, except the Witcher. But now, that had gone, too. He was alone, with just his lute to keep him company. Strangers in bars would not be enough to fill the aching hole in his heart.  


Still, Jaskier kept on walking. He would pass the camp they had slept at last night soon, and hoped that there would be some supplies left, perhaps some rations, as he had stupidly not brought any himself, relying on the Witcher instead, like he had always done. All he had was his lute, strapped across his back, and a small dagger, hidden in his boot. The other stuff he had was at the foot of the mountain, tucked away in Roach’s saddlebags. Oh god. He would have to get his stuff. He just hoped that the Witcher would not be there when he did. The Witcher had made his stand, and so had the bard.  


The thought of seeing the Witcher at the foot of the mountain gave Jaskier newfound energy, as he started to walk faster. Anything to get down the mountain before the Witcher. Because if he could not beat the Witcher, he would have to talk to him, and there was nothing more than Jaskier wanted less.  


\--  


It took the bard less than an hour to get to camp. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. He could not help but think “why should it?” as he stared at all that was left behind. Yennefer had somehow gotten her tent, and the dwarves probably took what was left. All that was left, all that showed any sign of life, were some logs, placed around a fire, and a smoldering heap of wood in the middle.  


Jaskier sighed, sitting down, placing the lute at his side. He kicked dust in the ashes of the fire. He sat for a while, before letting out a dry laugh. God, everything was really fucked up. He had no food, a half-empty water skin, and worst of all, no company. His stomach rumbled loudly, protesting at the lack of food. He wanted to stay, to sit down forever, to just lay there on the ground, not caring what happened to him. But he knew that would simply not do. His hunger was currently more demanding than the desire to lay on the ground, so he got up, and continued his path downward, hoping he would be able to find something in the woods he could eat.  


However, the woods were not welcoming at all. On the way to the top of the mountain, they had taken a quick route, a route that led to nothing but death and misery, but it had been a short route, and god, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to get down the mountain as fast as possible. But he knew he could not take that path, as he was sure the wooden planks, hanging alongside the mountain, would not hold him. He would fall, like Borch had, but unfortunately, he was not a dragon, and would surely fall to his own demise.  


So, he had to take the road into the woods, a road that was unknown to him. He hoped there would not be trouble, but deep down, he knew there would be. His hopes for finding food had diminished, and his fear of danger increased. The Reavers were dead, and the dwarves would most likely not kill him, but he still felt that there was something waiting, watching, that would mean bad news for him. After all, on the way up, there had been a Hirikka, a relatively harmless monster, but a monster nonetheless. Jaskier had one small dagger in his boot, but it would probably not be able to help him if anything big or dangerous came in his way.  


\--  


Yet, after hours of walking, he had not had any near-death experiences. Yet. He had found some berries that were edible, but they did not still his hunger, nor quench his thirst. The bard could not help thinking how stupid he had been, how much of an idiot he was for not bringing his own supplies. He had had this same discussion with the Witcher before. The Witcher had told him to bring some supplies for himself, if they ever got separated or something happened. But Jaskier had dismissed the Witcher then, claiming his songs would be all they needed, which did not make the Witcher smile, as he had hoped.  


Now, looking back, he was angry at himself. He could not eat his fucking lute, now could he? Unless? Jaskier shrugged the thought away. Of course, he could not eat his own lute. That would be insane.  


So, reluctantly, trotting through the woods silently, Jaskier held on to his dagger, ready to strike at anything that came near him, hoping to catch a rabbit, a bird, or even a rat. Yes, Jaskier, the famous bard, considered eating a rat. If that did not speak of his despair, then nothing did.  


Luckily, he found a stream after walking for another hour, and saw some fish swimming. He took his knife, kneeled down by the riverbed, and waited patiently, finally impaling a fish with his knife after several unsuccessful attempts.  


He gathered some branches, and lit a fire ablaze with the help of a flint. He roasted his fish over the fire, and when the fish was done, devoured it quickly.  
Jaskier decided that this would be the best place to stay for the night. He did not have a blanket, nor any semblance of anything he was used to, so he just leant against a tree, and hoped nothing would kill him while he slept.  


\--  


He did not dream, nor did he sleep. He was exhausted, yet his mind refused to let him sleep. All he could think of, now that he had stopped moving, and sat down for the night, was that awful fight with the Witcher on the mountain. He could not find it within himself to be angry with himself, the way that the Witcher had been angry with him, but he could not live with himself for walking away. Jaskier had never considered himself a coward, yet that was the only word repeated in his mind over and over. He should have stood up for himself, and face the Witcher’s anger. But he had not. He had been to hurt, and it all happened too sudden, for him to argue back. He had chosen the easy way out, letting his own self-pity get the better of him. For once, he had shut up, precisely when he should not have.  


So, when Jaskier awoke, his mind had been made. He would not make his way down the mountain. Not before he had confronted the Witcher. Geralt owed him an apology, if anything. But, Jaskier wanted more than an apology. He wanted his friend, the stubborn Geralt of Rivia, back. He wanted to seek out monsters with him, travel the Continent with him. Jaskier did not want to dwell alone. He did not mind the dwelling, but he did mind the loneliness, already sick of the silence after less than a day. Perhaps Geralt did not speak much, but he was there, present, and, as Jaskier realized while getting ready to climb the mountain for the second time, Geralt had become an unmissable constant in his life. All Jaskier hoped for, is that Geralt felt the same. Jaskier would climb that mountain, and find his friend, god help anyone that stands in his way.


	2. Run Boy Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier realizes he is neither alone in the forest, nor safe.

Thus, the bard had made up his mind: he would find the Witcher, and confront him. Jaskier could simply not live with himself if he did not confront Geralt. They might fall out again, true, but at the moment, the rewards outweighed the risks. 

After a hearty breakfast, Jaskier readied himself to return to the top of the mountain, and hopefully, find Geralt. Things would go back to normal, or they would not. Simple.

But nothing was ever simple.

Nothing was ever simple.

Because, less than ten minutes after Jaskier had left, he found he had not been the only one that had spent the night in the forest.

He heard voices, multiple voices, that were alarmingly close. He did not recognize the voices, and could not hear what the mysterious voices were discussing. But, Jaskier knew that it would be wiser to hide, than to face whoever was out there. Better safe than sorry, the saying goes. 

So, Jaskier hid, crouching behind a fallen tree, shaded out of sight by its leaves. There was nowhere else he could hide, since the trees in the forest were narrow and sparse, and would betray his presence immediately. 

He cradled his lute to his chest, holding the small dagger that was usually hidden in his boot in one of his hands. He hoped he would not have to use his dagger, since he was not sure how much damage he could do before any was done to him.

The voices kept coming closer, and by now the words spoken were almost tangible. There seemed to be several voices in conversation, but he could not discern the voices yet. After a breathless minute, the voices finally came close enough for him to hear. 

He did not like what he heard.

One of the voices, a deep, male voice, spoke to the other voices, his voice booming through the forest: “don't worry, Ide, we will avenge them.”

The woman that replied laughed wryly. “We better. Those bastards should pay for what they have done. To my poor Sten. To your Jurge. And to all the others.” 

Yet another male voice mixed into the conversation, the voices coming ever closer. “They will. Remember what the dwarves told us. What is one Witcher going to do against twelve people?”

Jaskier silently cursed. Holy fuck. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This was bad. Not good. Not good at all.

The same woman laughed, her laugh sending a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. “don't underestimate the butcher of Blaviken, Grahm. You might be strong, and we might have twelve people, but that Witcher knows how to handle a sword if the tales are true.” 

“You underestimate me, Ide. We have the element of surprise on our side. Besides, the Witcher is alone, without the mage, or even that bard to help him. If those dwarves told the truth, the Witcher has isolated himself, even managing to make the mage and bard abandon him. I just know that bastard will be distracted. Distracted enough for us to kill him. To avenge those slain by him and the mage.” 

Ide, whose voice was now mere feet away from Jaskier, grunted in agreement. “Yes. Let’s take a break now, while the day is still early. We will get to the top of that mountain before the day ends.”

There were several shouts of agreement, and then, it sounded like the group sat down. Mere feet away from Jaskier was hiding. 

Again, Jaskier cursed. He could not help but wonder if this was really happening. The minute he makes up his mind, and attempts to find Geralt, a group of angry and vengeful people appears, with the same goal in mind: finding the Witcher. Yup, that is just bloody great.

Even worse, a group of twelve, by the sound of it, angry and armed people, was extremely close to him. Worse, they knew of his existence, and his connection to the Witcher. Normally Jaskier would be thrilled to meet people who knew of him, but these circumstances made Jaskier reconsider.

If even one of the group got up, and walk a few feet over, Jaskier knew he would be done for. He might take one or two down, but that would be it. He did not like those odds.

It sure did not help that he was still wearing the same outfit he wore while hiking up the mountain, as it was bright red, a color not usually found in nature. He was like walking target practice. Great. 

The bard sat still, for maybe the first time in his life. He barely dared to breathe, scared it would draw attention to him. All he could do was sit as the group of vengeful people talked amongst each other. 

“You know, I don't care that Boholt is dead. He was always an asshole, even for a fuckin' Reaver. If he had kept on running his mouth and asserting his self-imposed dominance, I would have taken him down myself. I would thank the fucking Witcher for that, had he and that mage not murdered everyone else, too.”

As this other, unknown voice spoke, something clicked. Jaskier realized the murderous group were the family, friends, and loved ones of the Reavers that had gone along on the quest. He also realized that they thought Geralt had killed Boholt, while, technically, it had been Yennefer. Unfortunately, he was in no position to correct the group on their technicalities, unless he wanted to die. 

Additionally, he realized that somehow, the Reavers must have had a backup plan in case anything went wrong. There was no way these people climbed all the way to the forest in a single day: it had taken him almost two days to get to this point. Which means the Reavers that died knew they would, and had arranged this group to follow them, or that they were planning on murdering any survivors to obtain the dragon's treasure by ambushing the survivors with not one, but two groups of Reavers. Maybe both. 

This also raised the question about what happened to the dwarves. This group had clearly met them, spoken to them. Would the dwarves still be alive? The dwarves had been assholes, yes, but they had not tried to kill Geralt, or Jaskier, which was more than could be said for this group. Sadly, Jaskier instinctively felt that the dwarves had not made it down the mountain. 

He felt betrayed by the dwarves, too. How could they have told this obviously aggressive group what had happened? About the fight? Could they not have shut up? If they had not blabbered, nothing might have happened. But they had blabbered, only fueling the anger of the group.

Again, that did not bode well for him. Especially since the dwarves had little to no acquaintance with the Witcher. Jaskier had. Which meant that he was toast if they caught him. 

The group continued their conversation, speaking of their lust for vengeance, as it seemed most of them had lost someone they knew and loved during the fight on top of the mountain. Each and every one of them seemed motivated to kill Geralt. Which Jaskier could have agreed with if asked yesterday, when he, too, had felt betrayed and bitter. But today, all he wanted to do is run up that mountain and warn Geralt. 

After what seemed like eternity, the group seemed to get ready to leave again, gearing up again, the sounds of swords clinking throughout the forest. 

The group was rowdy, laughing at each other descriptions of what they would do when they found the Witcher. It did not sound particularly pretty. 

Finally, the sounds of footsteps indicated that the group was really leaving. Jaskier thanked his lucky stars that they continued in the same direction, away from where he was hiding. 

The sounds of footsteps and laughter softly echoed away, until they were nothing but faint echoes.

Very carefully, Jaskier got up. 

He looked around, satisfied to find the place he had been hiding free from any other people. He sighed, making more sound than he had for the last thirty minutes. 

Stretching his limbs, he sat down on one of the logs dragged into a circle by the bereaved Reavers. 

Jaskier laughed. Bereaved Reavers. That was a good one. He thought to himself to write it down, for the ballad he would undoubtedly write about this whole debacle. 

The group had left behind some half-eaten apples and bread, which Jaskier saw as a blessing, picking up the half-eaten bread and apple, and devouring it himself. They also left behind a dagger, which Jaskier thought was odd, but would come in handy nonetheless. Stupid idiots. Leaving weapons behind.

Perhaps he was too preoccupied with eating the food.

Perhaps he was too amped up to focus.

Either way, he did not notice the Reaver until he appeared into the clearing.

The reaction was immediate. 

Jaskier immediately scrambled backwards, falling from the log, realizing the man in front of him must have come back for the dagger. Of course, they would not just leave a dagger behind. Of course the owner would retrieve it. 

The man, who had to be the owner of the weapon, stood frozen for a few seconds, before realizing what was happening. Something in his eyes changed, from boredom to malice, as a wicked smile appeared across his face. Something else appeared in his face too, as he regarded Jaskier, who had gotten up quickly, dagger in hand. Recognition. 

“Ah. The bard. A pleasure to meet you. We wondered where you were,” the man said, taking a dagger from a sheath.

Of course this man had more than one dagger. Typical.

Jaskier took a step back, trying to distance himself from the man. “Ah, well I cannot say I feel the same, sadly. Now, if you would be so kind to put your dagger down and turn around, and then we will forget this ever happened.” 

The man laughed. “No, can’t do. What I can do however, is kill you.”

Jaskier shook his head, “not really a big fan of that idea, to be honest.”

“Too bad,” the man said, as he advanced, dagger ready in hand.

Jaskier had his own dagger in one hand, and the dagger the man had come to collect in the other. He swallowed, before reading himself to strike. He hated the idea of drawing blood, much less taking the life of another man, but this rude man left him little choice.

The man struck, running forward, and slamming Jaskier into the tree behind him. The man lifted his arm, ready to strike with his dagger, but Jaskier blocked him, drawing blood from the man while doing so. The man smiled, and struck another blow, hitting Jaskier in the stomach, hard. 

Jaskier doubled over, hard, barely remaining standing before the man struck him with his elbow in the back, knocking Jaskier to the ground. 

Jaskier cursed loudly, rolling sideward as fast as he could, barely missing the man’s dagger, which would have stabbed him in the back, had he not moved. 

Without hesitating, powered by adrenaline, Jaskier stood up and took the larger knife, and stabbed the man. The knife stuck in the man’s shoulder, which caused the man to curse loudly, but not to collapse, as Jaskier had hoped.

The man struck Jaskier in the face, hard, which made the bard lose sight for a few seconds, realizing a little too late that the man had stabbed him in the leg. Blood was already flowing freely, and Jaskier had to suppress a scream as he looked at the knife that was stuck in his leg. 

The man looked at Jaskier with a wry smile, before grabbing the knife of the dagger and pulling it out of Jaskier’s leg.

Fueled by rage and pain, Jaskier cursed, his grip around the second knife in his hand tightening as he moved forward, pushing the man so hard that he stumbled across a log, and fell to the ground.

Jaskier sprung upon the man, punching him hard, the sound of breaking bone echoing across the forest as his fist connected with the man’s face. Yet the man smiled, “is that all you can do?”

“You ain seen nothing yet,” Jaskier said, before slamming down the knife, piercing the man’s chest. 

Blood sprayed across Jaskier and the man, and it took a second for the bard to realize what he had done, staring at the man beneath him, whose life was slowly draining out, his breathing ragged and irregular.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg, nearly falling down. 

It made him sick to his stomach to do so, but Jaskier leaned forward, and retrieved the weapon from the man’s chest, as he felt like he would have further use for it. The man stared at him as Jaskier removed the weapon, before the man’s eyes lost their light, and the man stopped breathing. 

He was dead. 

And Jaskier had killed him. 

And worst of all, he needed to run, now, and get the fuck out of the forest. 

Because soon the Reavers would wonder where this man was, and why he had not returned. And Jaskier did not want to be here when they found the man, laying dead on the forest floor. 

So, he ran. 


	3. In The Woods Somewhere

Jaskier ran. Or at least, he tried to. He managed to run for a full minute before slowing down, limping, until he had to lean against a tree to support him. He was wheezing, grasping the tree to hold himself up, to prevent himself from collapsing onto the forest floor. The stab wound hurt, and was still, rather unsurprisingly, bleeding profusely. He would have left the knife in until he could have bandaged it, had it not been for the other man, who had cruelly yanked the knife out of his thigh. Oh god, the other man. The man he had killed. The image of the man’s body seemed to be etched into his mind, refusing to leave his mind. Jaskier could barely suppress the urge to throw up everytime he as much as blinked, for he saw that same man, bloodied, dying, dead.

Deep down, he knew that could have been him. He could have died there and then, on the forest floor, and who would have known? Would he even be found, or would he be devoured by the local wildlife? Would travellers find his remains months later, wondering what unfortunate event had occurred. Would anyone miss him? Would anyone miss a bard who sporadically appeared in public anyway, who was known for dwelling the continent with a Witcher?

Jaskier shuddered. He knew the answer to all of those questions. Perhaps that was what scared him more: the suddenness of death, the meaninglessness of death, but more importantly, his own life. What would he leave behind, what was his legacy? A few songs? A ballad? No, there had to be more.

Determined, he slumped against the tree, slowly lowering himself until he sat on the ground. _No,_ he thought, _I will not die here on this cursed mountain. I refuse._ He took his own knife, and cut a thick strip of fabric from his doublet to use as a bandage, hopefully to stop the bleeding. Cutting one of his favorite doublets was painful, but bleeding out would undoubtedly be even worse. He cut off another part of his chemise to clean the wound with. 

He dabbed the cloth around the wound, wiping away any dirt that had gotten around the wound, before softly dabbing the wound itself. The moment the cloth touched the wound, he had to suppress a scream. Fuck. The wound hurt more than anything, throbbing, blood flowing again the second he touched it. He grit his teeth, and dabbed the area surrounding the stab wound again, before grabbing the cut fabric from his doublet, and tying it around his thigh in an attempt to slow and eventually stop the bleeding. Again, as the fabric touched the wound, he flinched, but he had to tie something around the wound to stop himself from losing too much blood, and more importantly, from bleeding out. 

Jaskier took a minute to gather himself, before slowly rising from the forest floor. He had to hurry: the other Reavers could return at any moment. By now, they must have noted that someone from their company was missing, that the man was taking too long to retrieve the weapon he had left behind. He had run from the scene blindly, not paying much attention to the way he came from, where he was going, just that he wanted to get away from the corpse he had left behind, from the man he had killed. 

He stood, still leaning against the tree, cursing softly. How had he even got himself in this situation? He scoffed at himself. If he hadn’t been so greedy, so desperate to get some food, none of this would have happened. 

Jaskier scoffed again. In the heat of the moment he had almost forgotten that he was supposed to go back up the mountain, to find Geralt. His own life was not the only one in danger, Geralt’s was, too. He knew that Geralt could handle himself, but the Reavers could, too. Additionally, what had come to pass on the mountain, Yennefer leaving, Jaskier leaving, could not have been beneficial to Geralt’s state of mind, to put it mildly. Oh, and not to mention that the Reavers would be fucking furious when they would see him, their need to avenge their fallen comrades, and of course, the fact that the Reavers had a shitload of weapons. Jaskier had seen crossbows, longbows, axes, mallets, and many knives and swords. Who knows what else they carried. No, he had to warn Geralt. Both of them needed to get away, and then, once everything was safe, Jaskier would let Geralt know what he thought of his behavior on the mountain, be damned the consequences. 

He started walking, wincing at the first few steps, but slowly, very slowly, getting used to the constant throbbing wound. The wound still hurt, but the pain became such a constant, an annoying presence, that he felt like he could almost get used to it. 

So, he walked. He walked as fast as he could, still slightly limping. After a short while he realized he had left behind his lute at the scene. He cursed loudly, but he knew he could not go back to retrieve it, for he would risk getting discovered by the other Reavers. He wanted to come back later, to get it, but he knew that the chances of recovering it were nearly impossible. His lute would betray his presence, the fact that he was still on the mountain, that he was alive, and that he had murdered one of the Reavers. The lute would either be taken, or destroyed. No, he had little chance of recovering his lute.

Jaskier stumbled on, taking little breaks every now and then to give his leg the chance to rest a little, before continuing. He didn’t know when he had left the scene. Surely, it must have been over an hour ago. By now, the Reavers would, most likely, have found the body of the man he had killed. If they found him, he was toast. So, he stumbled on, intent on finding Geralt and warning him.

But uncertainty filled every part of his body, drowned out his thoughts. Would he even find Geralt? After all, it had been a long time since they had parted ways, and the mountain was big. Sure, there were not many ways down the mountain, but Geralt was clever enough to find a way to get down unseen, if he wanted to. Jaskier, on the other hand, felt like he had to blindly find his way back, following his feelings more than anything, though he had never been particularly skilled at navigating in the wilderness, which is something he had first noticed when travelling with Geralt many years ago. Jaskier’s sense of direction was simply shit, something which Geralt had told him many times over. They would laugh whenever Jaskier guided them, because they would, inevitably, get lost.

Now, the memory stung. The joke had been funny, and the memories surrounding it were warm. Yet, as Jaskier blindly stumbled across the woods, hoping that he would not bump into a group of murderous Reavers, he couldn’t help feeling anything other than desperate, and scared. He had to find Geralt: it was not just his own life hanging in the balance, but Geralt’s, too. If he failed, if the Reavers found him, or if he would succumb to his wound, to the blood loss, or if, god forbid, he encountered a monster, he would not have just failed himself, failed to protect himself, but failed to protect Geralt, too. It seemed selfish to die, to give up, for if he did, Geralt might die, too. People had said many things about Jaskier. That he was annoying, loud, and other, much worse things, but if anything, he was loyal. He was loyal to his friends, to his friend, Geralt. Maybe even loyal to a default.

Maybe the blood loss was making him a bit delirious, or maybe it was a deeper fear, but Jaskier felt sentimental, unable to stop thinking about his life, the decisions he has made. He wondered what had happened if he had never joined the Witcher to the Valley of Flowers all those years ago. He wondered what would have happened if he never went to Calanthe’s feast, or if he never went to Rinde. He realized that most of his life, of his adult life, revolved around the Witcher in some way. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Just as he realized how much of his life had been spent in the company of the Witcher, he heard someone curse. Jaskier froze in place. Unmistakably, the sound was human. No animal or monster could produce a sound like that. The voice was hoarse, and appeared to be a male voice. He felt compelled to try and see who it was that had cursed, who it was that was so close to him, but he couldn't help but think that he didn’t want to find out who it was. If it was Geralt, things would undoubtedly be awkward. If it was a Reaver, he’d be dead. Simple as.

He remained frozen in place for a few more seconds, before making up his mind. He would look. He had to. So he tiptoed across the forest floor, attempting to avoid stepping on leaves or branches, as to not make a sound. He knew he was breathing loudly, but he couldn’t control his breathing, nor could he stop himself from shaking. He was scared, terrified.

Finally, he saw the weak flickering of a fire, illuminating the trees. He inched closer, hiding behind trees, still tiptoeing to avoid making a sound. When he finally got a good few of the fire, he cursed, softly. There was no one to be found, no one sitting around the fire, yet there was a fire going, and Jaskier was sure he heard someone cursing. At least, he felt reasonably sure. What if he had really been delirious from blood loss? 

But that would still not explain the fire. The fire could not have been lit by an animal, nor could it have started without any aid. It had to have been lit by someone. But where were they? Where was the person, or persons, who lit the fire?

Jaskier suddenly felt a pit of dread in his stomach, walking away ever so slowly, ready to walk back into the woods, when he felt the tip of a sword against the base of his neck. _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, updating every week? Scrap that.
> 
> My apologies for updating after like, four months. I've been incredibly busy with uni, but alas, summer break has finally arrived, which means that I will try to update more regularly!


	4. Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

Silence falls. Though hours seem to pass, no more than a few seconds pass before the silence is broken. 

“Jaskier?”

Relief is instant. That awful pit of dread at the bottom of his stomach instantly disappears, his hands stop shaking. He hears the sound of a sword being put back in its sheath, and lets out a deep and shaky breath of relief before swiveling around, looking at the man opposite him, grinning.

“Geralt.”

Despite everything that has happened, Jaskier can’t help but feel happy to see the other man again, to see someone familiar amidst the chaos that has been his life these past few days, these past few hours. He wants to say more, yet he doesn’t. He feels relief, if anything, at seeing someone who will probably not skewer him like a kebab. He feels relief, but dread, too. There is a conversation to be had, a conversation that needs to happen, but the thought of it alone makes his gut hurt with anxiety, with hurt. He wants to confront the other man. He wants to confront Geralt, tell him how he made him feel. He wants to scream at the other man, rant, shout. But he doesn’t. Instead he lets silence fall.

The silence is uncomfortable. It’s long. Geralt looks at him intently, staring at him. He looks uncomfortable, frowning, even distraught. For a second it seems like he is going to speak, his mouth opening before closing again. Geralt’s arms hang limply at his side, as if he is unsure what to do with them.

Jaskier looks back, meeting Geralt’s stare with his own. He hasn’t forgotten his own anger, his frustration, his annoyance. He is still angry at Geralt, angry for how Geralt treated him. Angry at himself too, for letting Geralt treat him that way. He is angry. Yet he also feels relieved, happy to see his friend again. His friend, who he knows sees him as a friend too, despite his outburst. Despite everything.

The silence continues. The staring continues. Meanwhile, Jaskier’s head is racing with thoughts, until he can’t take it anymore. He needs to say something, he has to speak. He has to break the silence.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, crossing his arms, continually staring at the other man, challenging him to respond. 

_Good one_ , Jaskier thinks. _Real smooth._

In typical Geralt fashion, the other man just says “hmm.” 

Over the years on the road with Geralt, Jaskier had gotten quite good at deciphering every single type of “hmm,” that came out of Geralt’s mouth. And Geralt sure did love making that sound. Over the years, Jaskier had heard every type of “hmm” imaginable, so he knew what Geralt meant. He had scoffed, but there had been no annoyance behind the sound. There was another emotion behind it, something that came awfully close to amusement. 

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to scoff.

“Hmm? Is that all?”

Silence.

Jaskier felt himself getting angry, blood rushing to his head. The words that came out of his mouth were filled with anger, spute even. “Is that all you have to say?”

Geralt frowned, opening his mouth to speak, to form a real, actual response, not just a “hmm.” Maybe even a sentence if Jaskier was lucky, but he cut the Witcher off before he could form a single sound.

“Is that all you have to say? Is that all you want to say? After what you said, what you did?” Jaskier felt himself becoming increasingly more angry, but he kept talking, starting to speak increasingly faster, louder.

“You don’t get to do that. To anyone. You don’t get to blame your shit on other people. You have no right treating people that way. When one thing, just the one thing, doesn’t go your way you think it’s everyone’s fault but your own. You blame everyone but yourself. You don’t get to shove your shit onto other people. Not onto Yennefer, not onto me, not onto anyone.”

The words kept coming, his emotions getting the better of him.

“You think you're blameless? You avert your anger onto others, blame their decisions for your misfortune, but you’re the only person to blame. The child surprise? That was all you. No one else has anything to do with it. That was all you, thinking you could ignore destiny, ridicule it. Your own hubris is to blame. You think you’re better than others because you know that you’re different from others. You think nothing can harm you, nothing can defeat you, not even destiny? You think you’re better because your mutations give you abilities? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not. You’re just as bad. Any with the way you behaved, even worse. Only the gods know how many people you’ve hurt. You think you’ve got a chip on your shoulder because of your mutations, because of how you were raised? Grow up. You complain that people don’t like Witchers, that you’re driven from villages after you’ve completed a contract, that no one sees you as anything other than your profession, your mutations. Have you ever considered that people don’t like you because you’re a dick? You don’t let people in, and when you do, there’s still walls upon walls. Does anyone know you? Does Yennefer? Do I? You don’t let people in, you keep them around, but don’t let them in, even if they want to be around.”

He couldn’t stop now, the words spilling from his mouth, his heart. Twenty years of frustrations, annoyance, and anger came spilling out.

“You want to know who is responsible for your problems? Take a good hard look in the mirror, and behold, for there stands the man responsible for all your problems, your woes, your troubles. It is you. The child surprise? That was you. The djinn? Surprise! That was you, too! I didn’t ask to have a magical being attempting to fucking kill me. Nor did Yennefer ever ask for you to bound yourself to her. You scoff at the idea of someone being bound to you, someone who was bound to you by nothing but your own acts of hubris, yet you don’t blink when you bound others onto you. If it is you who does it, it’s alright, is it? Well, it’s not!”

Tears are running down his face, but he doesn’t care. The words just keep on coming. His emotions overwhelming him. Everything that happened on the mountain came at him at full force. The dragon hunt itself, Geralt’s outburst, his own near death experience, the murder he had been forced to commit, even if it had been in self-defense, the anger, the sadness, the fear. It all came tumbling down.

“I’m so fucking tired of your holier-than-thou-attitude, your self-determined invincibility. I’m tired of it. So, will you please, for the love of Melitele, reflect on your own actions and behavior for just a second, and stop, please stop, blaming others for problems you created?”

There it was again, silence. Jaskier looked down, before looking at the other man. He was shaking, rage still coursing through his body. He felt better, almost relieved, now that the words he had been wanting to say had come out, yet he still felt annoyed, angry. Tears were still stinging at the back of his eyes.

Geralt audibly swallowed. He looked at Jaskier, _really_ looked at Jaskier, and turned his head away once again, before finally speaking.

“Jaskier. I... I’m sorry. I know that isn’t enough, but I am. I am sorry. Truly sorry”

Geralt paused, before continuing in a soft tone of voice, a tone which Jaskier hadn’t heard before. Geralt almost sounded pained. 

“You’re right. I have been angry lately, angry at the world, at destiny, at myself, and I have been denying that anger, hiding it, letting it devour me.”

He paused again, before continuing in the same tone of voice, “I reacted poorly. I shouldn’t have blamed my problems on you, nor should I have directed my anger at you. In the moment I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop, the words just kept coming and coming. I’m sorry.”

Geralt paused once again, still looking Jaskier in the eyes. He continued, this time in an even rougher voice.

“You’re right, too, about how I have been behaving for years. I have been, as you so nicely put it, suffering from insurmountable hubris. I can explain my behavior, but I can’t justify it. All those years on the Path alone changed me, made me forget how to act human. And then you came along, and later Yennefer, too, and everything changed. You two showed me how to act like a human being, but sometimes, I can’t help but slip into old habits, especially when emotions start to get the better off me. I have been suppressing my emotions for decades, and some would probably argue I haven’t been very successful at doing so, but when times get tough, I revert back to suppressing emotions. It’s helped me survive in the past, and it still helps me to survive today. But I know that when I act that way I become an insufferable asshole, and frankly, I’m still surprised, everytime I see you, that you’re still around, that you still haven’t left.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Jaskier asked, in such a soft tone that his question was more of a whisper.

“No. I want you to stay. I'll try to be better, if you let me.”

There was that feeling of relief again. Jaskier sighed, before asking his next question.

“Have you considered that while you’ve been surviving, you’ve forgotten how to live?”

Silence.

Geralt stared at the other man for a while.

“Yes.”

“What good is surviving if you can’t live a little?”

“It’s not. It’s never been,” Geralt replied, the tiniest smirk forming.

“You big oaf. Come here,” Jaskier said, gesturing Geralt to come closer, extending his arms.

Geralt hesitated, before accepting the hug. They hug, and Jaskier feels like maybe the world isn’t so cruel after all. 

“Does this mean you forgive me?” Geralt asks, his voice muffled by the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet.

“It’s a start.”

They stand like that for a while, before they both step back a little. Geralt sniffs, as if smelling something unusual, before looking at Jaskier, a concerned look on Geralt's face.

“When did you get stabbed?”

“Oh, right. You should see the other guy.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, sounding both concerned and slightly annoyed.

“No more than a few hours ago. I almost forgot to tell you. There’s a whole group of Reavers on the mountain. And they want revenge. They want to avenge their fallen comrades. They want you. They almost killed me too. I would have died if I hadn’t managed to kill that other guy.”

“Fuck,” Geralt replied, in very typical Geralt fashion, before staring at Jaskier. “You killed someone?”

“Reluctantly. It was either me or him.”

“I’m sorry you had to do that. If only I hadn’t been such an ass-,” Geralt said, before Jaskier cut him off.

“Yeah, me too. But it’s not your fault. I don’t really want to talk about it right now. We need to get off this mountain, quick.”

“Let’s go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's another chapter done! Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, I was really excited to write Jaskier's rant haha.


	5. Something on Your Mind

It’s quiet in the woods. Too quiet. No scuffling of animals, no rustling of trees, nothing. All that Jaskier hears are his and Geralt’s footsteps, twigs crunching under their feet. Well, his own feet. Jaskier feels like an elephant in a china cabinet compared to Geralt, who treads lightly upon the forest floor. There is silence between the two men, too, for which Jaskier is grateful. They don’t speak, as to avoid any unwanted attention, but the aftermath of their argument still weighs heavily upon Jaskier’s shoulders, too. He doesn’t regret what he said, but he might have been a bit harsh. Not that that matters now. You can’t take back your own words, no matter what.

So, they walk.

Again, it feels like they’ve been walking for hours. Time seems to pass differently on the mountain. Everything feels like an eternity to Jaskier. Time becomes quicksand, slowly swallowing him, until he can’t breathe, see, think, stuck in time. The hunt for the golden dragon seems to be ages ago, a relic of time, yet it can’t have been more than a day ago. Jaskier remembers Geralt falling out at him, shouting at him, and he remembers the way down, which, strangely enough, seems like a distant memory, but a fresh memory too, as if it happened mere minutes ago. He remembers the Reaver, the knife, the blood. The blood. Gushing from his leg, gushing from the man, gushing all over the forest floor. He remembers, though he wants to forget, desperately so. He remembers hobbling up the mountain. He remembers shouting at Geralt, Geralt’s face, his own anger. He remembers everything. He can’t forget.

They walk.

Something is off. Surely, thinks Jaskier, they would have heard the Reavers by now, seen them, met them? Surely they can’t have gotten lost. They must have found the man he killed. He knows they must have. Which does not bode well for them. A group of Reavers, already enraged by the loss of their partners, friends, family, finding another body. The anger that comes with that kind of loss must be consuming, overwhelming, deadly.

They walk.

Images keep on flashing through his mind. Geralt shouting at him, the man he killed, bleeding out. The blood sticks on his hands, his clothing, his mind. And the fear. The fear of what will happen, the unknown, death, carnage, blood. Fear seems to swallow him whole. He can’t take the silence, the tension, the fear. He has to speak.

“Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t reply. Not with words anyway. The other man stares at him, looking him in the eye, confirming that he is listening. His gaze carries a warning too, warning Jaskier not to speak too loudly, not to draw any unwanted attention to them.

“Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.”

Again, Geralt doesn’t reply, but he nods. _Elaborate_.

“Where are the Reavers?”

This time Geralt does respond. “Lost, hopefully.”

Jaskier scoffs.”You know that isn’t true. They aren’t stupid. They can’t have gotten lost. They must have found the body, They wouldn’t just leave, after that. Or get lost. You know that.”

Geralt thinks for a second before replying. “Hmm.”

Jaskier suppresses the urge to scream.

“Can you please, for the love of Melitele, say something a bit more coherent? I don’t know if you noticed, but I am on the edge of a full-blown breakdown here.”

Geralt shoots an apologetic look at him, before replying. This time, a full sentence comes out.

“We will run into them eventually, probably sooner rather than later.”

“You do realize that does not help one bit. They could be right around the corner. They could be mere meters away, listening to our conversation. They could be anywhere and I can’t take it. They had so many weapons, Geralt. How are we supposed to defend ourselves?”

“Jaskier. We will manage and-,” Geralt replies, stopping mid-sentence, clearly contemplating something.

“And what?”

“You can use one of my swords, if you wish to do so.”

Silence.

It takes a few seconds for Jaskier to reply, taken aback. Never, in his many years on the road, had Geralt offered to lend Jaskier one of his swords. Never. Jaskier knew Geralt cared about his swords. And not just a little bit. The intimacy of the gesture overwhelmed him. Maybe Geralt was trying to open up more, and this was his way of showing he cared.

“Geralt, I- I couldn’t.”

“Yes. Yes, you can. I hear you introducing yourself to Yarpen earlier. When we went up the mountain.”

So, Geralt had been listening.

“Surely, a viscount such as yourself knows how to handle a sword.”

Jaskier nodded, slowly. Geralt was right. He knew how to handle a sword. He had been taught from a young age, practically learning to hold a sword as soon as he could walk. And he knew how to handle a sword well, too. But he had left that life behind. He wasn’t a viscount anymore, not in ways that mattered. He left his family behind, many, many years ago, left for Oxenfurt, left for another life, running from another life, other responsibilities, other choices.

“Yes, I do.”

He didn’t tell the other man that the thought of injuring another person sickened him, that it made his knees shake. He remembered the knife, in his hand, then in the other man. It sickened him. He was desperate to prevent anything like that from happening again. Ever.

“Do you want to?” Geralt asked, clearly seeing the hesitation in the other man.

“Not necessarily, no.”

Geralt nodded, understanding. For such a big oaf, he wasn’t completely stupid. He must have picked up on Jaskier’s hesitation, the quickening of his heartbeat, the sweat forming on his brow, just from the mere thought of handling a sword. Of handling the responsibility, the power that came with it. The certain consequences.

“That’s fine. With a bit of luck we might just get down this mountain undetected.”

Jaskier nodded, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. Sooner or later they would run into trouble. That’s just how life was, how life had always been, how it would always be. Trouble managed to find them, both of them.

\--

Trouble did find them.

Less than an hour later, the eerie silence of the forest was broken. Geralt was the first to notice, of course.

Having stopped dead in his tracks, Geralt put his hand up in the air, gesturing Jaskier to stop walking. Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks, too.

The echoes of voices could be heard. Multiple voices, overlapping in what appeared to be a heated discussion, echoed between the trees.Jaskier could hear the distant voices, hear the sound, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. To Jaskier it seemed like the voices were intelligible, a mumbling mess, but Geralt seemed to pick up on the conversation just fine.

Jaskier remembered the company existed of twelve persons. Twelve angry persons.

Then he remembered.

Eleven. Eleven even angrier persons.

Eleven angry persons who would stop at nothing to get their revenge. On Geralt, on Jaskier, on both of them.

His heart began hammering in his chest again, and he could feel himself starting to struggle to breathe normally, inhaling and exhaling at an increasingly fast rate.

Geralt noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Jaskier” he said, speaking so softly that his voice was barely audible, “we will get out of this.”

Jaskier bit his lip, closing his eyes and nodding, shakily. He hoped Geralt was right, he wanted him to be right, but he had trouble fully believing the other man. They were badly outnumbered. Eleven to two. Even if Geralt was a Witcher, and a great fighter, those odds didn’t look great. Maybe they would be able to sneak past them, unnoticed, but Jaskier knew, in his gut, that that wouldn’t happen. There would be a confrontation eventually. Maybe now, maybe in a few hours. All he could do was hope that they would both be alright, that they would live.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that it took him a few seconds to notice that Geralt was whispering something to him. He saw the other man’s mouth move, and heard the sounds, but was unable to absorb the information.

“What?” He asked the other man, shaking his head, trying to focus, to listen.

“They are looking for us. Both of us,” Geralt explained, halting for a few seconds before speaking, slowly, looking at Jaskier intently. “They… They know you killed that man. They found your lute.”

Jaskier’s heart sank. Of course his lute would betray his presence. He was a bard after all, and a bard usually travelled with a lute. It was well-known across the Continent that Jaskier travelled with a Witcher. It wouldn’t be difficult then, to make the connection between the dead Reaver and Jaskier. They had wanted revenge on the Witcher initially. The dead man would have been found near a lute. They would have come to the conclusion that where the Witcher went, the bard went. Especially if they had found a lute. _Gods_ , they wouldn’t rest until he was dead. Until both of them were dead. Even if they escaped from the mountain without a confrontation, they would chase them until the ends of the Continent. Jaskier understood. If someone he cared about was murdered, he too, would stop at almost nothing. He would never be able to rest, to breathe, to live, until he had gotten justice.

The realization dawned over him, slowly, but then all at once.

It was then that he understood. He understood what needed to be done, what needed to happen. There would have to be a confrontation. There was simply no other way, no other solution. Whatever would happen, needed to happen here, on this cursed mountain. Jaskier refused to live the rest of his days in fear, always looking over his shoulder, living in fear. He refused. He was not made for hiding, for living in the shadows.

This, of course, meant that he needed to do something he had attempted to avoid for so long. Something he had successfully avoided doing until he had killed the other man. He couldn’t let Geralt fight the Reavers alone. He knew Geralt had once taken down many men in Blaviken, and had known, understood, how the events of Blaviken had changed Geralt. Geralt might be able to take them all, but despite all of his flaws, Jaskier was not a selfish man. If anything, he was selfless, willing to give so that others might take. He would not allow his friend to suffer like that again, even if he still had not completely forgiven Geralt for what he had said on the top of the mountain.

He shuddered at the thought alone, but needs must. He would take up Geralt’s offer.

“Geralt.”

Geralt said nothing, staring at him instead, their eyes locking.

Jaskier exhaled. “I’d like to borrow that sword, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. We're nearing the ultimate showdown, huh. Stay tuned for what happens next!
> 
> As always, let me think what ya think :) any feedback is appreciated!


	6. Let's Shake

They had planned everything meticulously, yet the moment Jaskier stepped into the clearing, he immediately regretted their plan. Sure, they had gone over everything. They would surprise the Reavers, catch them off-guard, make them think they were still separated, so that Geralt could sweep in, so that he would have the element of surprise on his side, which would (hopefully) allow him to incapacitate the Reavers.

The only downside to that plan was that Jaskier needed to be the bait. And he hated being the bait.

The moment he emerged from the bushes and stepped into the clearing, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The Reavers, who had gathered around a campfire, all turned around, until he felt them staring at him. There was a moment of silence, during which nothing was audible, save for the soft sounds of the campfire, the conversation coming to a halt the moment they noticed him. Then almost all of them stood up simultaneously, drawing swords from their sheaths, knives from holsters, axes from scabbards. They stared at him, but none of them spoke.

Jaskier took a deep breath, and took another step forward, fully emerging from the bushes now.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

One of the woman, who he remembered to be Ide, scoffed, “you’ve got some fuckin’ balls comin’ here, Bard.”

Jaskier stared at her, trying his best to look somewhat imposing, threatening. Which came to him more easily than he expected.

“So I have. I thought maybe you’d want to talk it out? Surely you’re a group of smart people, aren’t you? You can see how it might be easier to talk it out than to simply slaughter each other, I hope?” He said, puffing his chest, making himself look bigger, “we wouldn’t want any more deaths, would we?”

Another woman, who he failed to recognize, started speaking, uttering a few swears before she was interrupted by a man. The man stepped forward, and looked at Jaskier, glaringly. When he spoke, Jaskier realized this must be Grahm, who had been pretty enthusiastic about spilling Geralt’s blood when Jaskier had first encountered them. Not a good sign.

“How would ya’ know, scoundrel? Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

Grahm had raised a valid point. When Jaskier and Geralt came up with their plan, they didn’t discuss how Jaskier would keep the Reavers distracted. But Jaskier was a master of the arts, a bard, and he would not be bested.

“And then what? What would you gain by that, save for more blood on your hands? You could take me, maybe, but you know I killed one of you. I could just as easily kill you where you stand. But no, that is not what I want. Nor what you want, for that matter. You do not want me, do you? You came for the other man, the Witcher, did you not?”

Grahm grunts reluctantly.

“Well, it just so happens that you are talking to his former best friend. You think you can find him? A Witcher? He will hear you coming from miles away, especially when you’re stomping around with eleven people.”

“You make a valid point, Bard. But there are eight people here. Three of our companions are out, hunting. They are excellent hunters, and even better trackers. Who knows what they might encounter.”

 _Shit._ Jaskier silently swore. Eight? There were supposed to be eleven. That meant three were missing. Three hunters missing. That didn’t bode well for Geralt.

“Who knows. They might encounter something. Might be a Witcher, might be a Hirikka. They might survive, they might not,” Jaskier said, stepping closer to Grahm. “Enough of these uncertainties. You want the Witcher? Fine. I can bring you to him. I was friends with him for over two decades. But that is in the past now. I do not care what happens to him. Hunt him down, kill him, do whatever you want. I can find him for you. I know his habits. What he does, where he goes. I know how he hides, stays out of sight. I know everything there is to know about him. If he does not want to be found, he won’t be found. I am your only chance.”

Another man, standing behind Grahm, laughed. “Pray, tell, why should we believe you? You say you were friends with this man, this monster, for over twenty years. Why so keen to betray him now, to see him dead?”

Jaskier blinked, letting as much anger and hatred slip into his voice as he could, before answering the man.

“I don’t care whether he dies or lives. All that matters is that he hurt me. But that’s fine. Because now I can see that I have been a fool for all these years, believing a monster like him could ever be anything other than that. A monster. I realized I have spent twenty years living a dream, a fantasy. I have lost twenty years of my life. Years I can never get back. And for what? For what?” Jaskier paused. He took a deep breath and continued, hoping the Reavers wouldn’t notice he was lying through his teeth. “For nothing. All that man ever did was use me. And I am sick and tired of it. I want to leave this behind me. All of this. What better way than to make him pay than to betray him like he betrayed me. That is what I would consider justice. Poetic justice, even.”

The man seemed satisfied with his answer. As did several other Reavers, nodding appreciatively at his answer.

Ide didn’t seem satisfied.

“So what? How do we know that this is not just some elaborate ploy? Even if it isn’t, you still killed Wilce. Is his blood not on your hands? You talk so highly of yourself, yet you’re no better than us?”

Jaskier had expected this question. He nodded gravely. “Ide, that’s your name right?”

Ide nodded.

“Ide, you’re right. I did kill him. He would have killed me, so I did what I could to defend myself. I understand why you are angry with me. I do. But if it was you that was attacked, would you not have acted like I did? Would you not have defended yourself?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll tell you what. When I have led you to the Witcher, and you are not satisfied, you may do with me as you wish. How does that sound?”

“I can live with that.”

"Brilliant. I am glad that’s settled, then,” Jaskier smiled. “Anybody else have any grievances that they want to take up with me? No? Brilliant." 

Just as everything seemed to be going great, a sound rolled across the plain. From beyond the trees came the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. A sword fight. Those three hunters must have encountered Geralt.

The Reavers looked at him.

Jaskier, very slowly, took his sword, Geralt’s sword, from its scabbard.

Then eight Reavers drew their weapons, once again. This time, they did not seem eager to talk.

Ide smiled wickedly. “Looks like the Witcher found us first.”

“So it seems.”

She charged, and Jaskier and Ide’s sword collided with a loud clang, echoing across the forest. Ide was angry, furious, and didn’t hesitate to charge, Jaskier barely blocking her blow. She put force behind her blows, but Jaskier instinctively knew how to react. After blocking Ide, he stepped forward, and brought down his sword, hard, making Ide’s sword tremble in her hands, a loud clang once again resonating across the plain. Ide grunted, nearly dropping her sword, and Jaskier stepped closer again, walking up next to her with ease, while she was trying not to drop her sword, and elbowed her, hard, in the back of her head, making her fall to her knees, sword dropping from her hand, eyes rolling into her head, before dropping to the ground completely.

Grahm was the next to charge. Grahm had an axe. And very defined biceps.

In an unexpected move, Grahm threw his axe. At high velocity.

Jaskier yelped. And dodged.

Then there was someone behind him, someone who he did not know, but someone who had the same fury in their eyes as Ide. He felt the knife enter in his shoulder and screamed, his voice piercing through the night. The pain overwhelmed him, but he didn’t think twice about whirling around and bringing his sword down in a broad arc, slashing the man who had come up behind him in the chest. The cut was deep, but not deep enough to incapacitate. So Jaskier slashed at the man again, and again, his sword twirling in his hand.

He found that the movements he had learned so long ago came to him easily. He was grateful, for once, for those long days, weeks, months spent learning how to fight, to parry. He was quick. And had an advantage: he was ambidextrous, and could yield a sword from both hands. Most people did not expect someone left-handed in a fight, which gave Jaskier an advantage he often used. Especially now, with a dagger embedded in his right shoulder, he was glad he could continue fighting.

The final cut he made was deep, nearly severing the man’s shoulder from his torso, bringing the sword upward with both hands. The man sank on the forest floor.

He began to worry. Not for himself, but for Geralt. Okay, also for himself. The knife embedded in his shoulder hurt like a bitch, it stung, it burned, but he had to keep going. What was a little sting compared to death?

Grahm came back into his field of vision, somehow with another axe in his hand. Fun.

Instead of throwing the axe, Grahm came closer and closer. Jaskier walked backwards, keen to get away from the axe, and even more keen to escape the frantic man wielding the axe.

Grahm laughed, “I guess the time of axe and sword is nigh.”

Jaskier was so caught up in walking backwards (and with finding a clever retort) that he failed to notice the man he had fought earlier. He only noticed that the man was on the forest floor as he tripped over him. Jaskier fell backwards, his back hitting the forest floor. The knife that was still embedded in his shoulder collided with the ground too, and dug deeper into his shoulder. Jaskier suppressed the urge to scream as the knife cut deeper into his flesh.

He did not have the time to think about the pain in his shoulder, though, as Grahm was inching closer, looming over him, axe in hand. Grahm was smiling wickedly, too, which only made Jaskier more eager to get away.

He stood up shakily, Geralt’s sword still clutched tightly in his hand. He twirled the sword around in his hand, before taking a step forward, preparing to attack Grahm. Grahm, however, was quicker. He raised his arm, and brought down his axe with force, aiming for Jaskier’s head.

Jaskier raised his sword, grabbing the hilt with both hands, bracing his knees for the impact of the blow. The axe collided with the sword, and although Jaskier nearly dropped the sword, he still had all his limbs.

He took advantage of his position, and once again, as he had done earlier, drove the sword upwards, towards Grahm’s arm that was holding the axe. Grahm was too slow, and Jaskier cut Grahm’s upper arm. The cut was deep, but it had not severed any muscles, and definitely not any bone.

Jaskier was about to strike again, but he heard a sound coming from his left. He turned his head around, and saw a woman approach with a sword in hand. She, too, was smiling wickedly. She was approaching fast, but Grahm was closer. Grahm, who had raised his axe again. Jaskier did the only thing he could think of to avoid getting impaled: he ran.

He was not sure how he knew, but he ducked as he ran, and sure enough, seconds later, he witnessed Grahm’s axe flying past him, embedding itself deeply within a tree.

He came to a halt, turning around, ready to face whoever would try to kill him next. He had been in quite a few pickles before, but none like this. A bar fight here, a bar fight there, but nothing on this scale. Sure, he had met some people who had wanted to kill him, but they usually were not as well-armed. Or with this many.

Grahm was making his way toward Jaskier again. This man had some unbelievable stamina. Or bloodlust. Maybe both. Definitely both.

“Grahm, my dear Reaver. I am sure two adults like us can talk this over, no?” Jaskier said, grinning nervously.

Grahm responded by taking a knife from his belt, and throwing the knife at Jaskier. His instincts took over, and somehow, as the knife hurtled towards him, Jaskier managed to deflect the knife with the sword.

“I'll take that as a no, then.”

Grahm took another knife from his belt.

Jaskier couldn’t believe his eyes. This man was a walking arsenal. He never knew someone could carry so many weapons, not even Geralt.

 _Geralt._ Where was Geralt? Surely he would have been here by now? He should have been here. Jaskier could take some of the Reavers, sure, but definitely not all of them. He knew this: he knew that at a certain point he would not be able to deflect a weapon, block a blow, or move away on time.

Suddenly, Jaskier was confronted by Grahm’s face, which was dangerously close. Uncomfortable close.

Jaskier stepped backwards, hoping to get away, but he soon felt the bark of a tree against his back. He had nowhere to go.

_Fuck._

Grahm grinned, once again, stepped closer once again until he was holding a knife against Jaskier’s throat.

“Any last words, bard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonsoir my friends. Hope y'all like this update!


	7. Blood on Your Knees

Admittedly, it was a cliche. But Jaskier really did see his life flash before his eyes.

He saw himself as a child, running through the forest, carefree. He saw himself again, as a young man, training with Ferrant, his cousin, in the garden. The fight with his family. Then, the fallout. He saw himself running away, wandering around, from settlement to settlement. Then he saw Posada, Geralt, Filavandrel. More wandering. More Geralt. Cintra. The djinn. Yennefer. Wandering. Oxenfurt. The dragon hunt.

He saw Grahm, grinning. Time seemed to slow down. 

He closed his eyes, desperately trying to avoid his own imminent death.

Silence.

A deep breath.

Then, a swift swishing sound in the air, followed by a sickening squelch. 

A scream. Jaskier couldn't tell if it was his own or someone else's. 

He felt blood spreading onto his chest, tasted it in his mouth. The taste of copper. The blood felt sticky and wet on his chest.

Yet he hadn't felt the knife, not any cut or wound. Yet he felt the blood, spreading across his chest. 

So, he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Slowly.

In front of him stood Grahm, motionless. Blood was coming from his chest, splattering onto Jaskier. He felt the warm blood oozing down his chest, spreading down his arms, his legs.

"Jaskier."

A voice pulled him back to reality.

There stood his savior. The white-haired man had never looked so much like an angel until now.

"Geralt."

And then, dramatic as ever, Grahm collapsed onto Jaskier, his dead weight falling onto him.

Jaskier yelped, and pushed Grahm away. His body fell to the ground.

It took Jaskier a few seconds to connect the dots. He had been preparing himself for death. But it hadn't come. 

He could see Grahm's back, now that Grahm had fallen to the ground. There was a knife embedded in his back, and by the way it was positioned, it seemed like the knife had pierced Grahm's heart, which would explain why his blood had spilled unto Jaskier's chest, and why he had heard a squelching sound. There was a cut too, across the back of Grahm's thighs. That must have been the swish he heard, as the cut ran across both thighs. 

"Are you alright?" Geralt asked, staring at him. 

Jaskier wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. But all that came out was "where were you?"

Geralt grunted, opening his mouth to speak, but Jaskier interrupted him, pushing Geralt to the ground, before letting himself fall onto the ground, too. Behind Geralt another Reaver had appeared, and not even a second after Jaskier had pushed him to the ground, a spear embedded itself in the tree behind them.

"For the love of Melitel-" Jaskier said, standing up, before ducking down again, rolling away from the spot he had fallen down in seconds earlier, as the woman attacking them seemed to have had two spears at her disposal. The second spear embedded itself in the ground, where Jaskier had been seconds earlier. 

Jaskier stood up again, certain that this time the woman had no spear in her hands. The roll he had made to avoid the spear had dug the dagger in his shoulder even deeper, and Jaskier began to feel faint, the adrenaline of the fight starting to wear off.

"Madam. I implore you to stop trying to kill me," he said, swaying on his feet.

She smirked, and stepped closer, retrieving a dagger from a holster in her belt. Great. All he needed was another dagger. He had been stabbed twice in the past day, and that had been quite enough, thank you.

The woman was concentrating on Jaskier so much that she missed Geralt, who nimbly rolled over, and put his palm outward, casting Aard, knocking the woman backward. The woman fell to the ground and didn't get up, seemingly unconscious.

“Thanks,” Jaskier said, letting himself fall to the ground. The world was spinning around him, and he felt like he would lose consciousness soon. He had to suppress the urge to close his eyes and let himself drift off.

Geralt looked a bit panicked now. Jaskier saw Geralt quickly glancing around, and satisfied that there were no more Reavers (not conscious ones anyway), he walked up to Jaskier, who, by now, was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier nodded, “hmm?”

Geralt knelt beside him, touching him gently on his knee, before speaking. “I am going to have to remove that dagger.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ve always wanted a piercing, leave it,” Jaskier murmured, not too keen to have the knife brutally yanked from his shoulder. He knew it had to come out, but had become accustomed to the pain now, and didn’t want any more pain.

“I can’t. I have to get it out, or you might not survive.”

_Hmm. That sounds serious_ , Jaskier thought, but he couldn’t find the words, fighting to stay awake and not succumb to the pain, now that the adrenaline had worn off.

Jaskier sighed heavily, and nodded, managing to say “do it.”

Geralt handed him a thick piece of tree bark, and Jaskier instinctively put it in his mouth. He had seen Geralt do the same before when treating his own wounds, or when letting Jaskier treat his wounds. Jaskier knew that he might bite his own tongue, or destroy his teeth by clenching his jaws too hard if he didn’t have anything to stop him from doing so.

He braced himself for the pain.

Geralt put one hand on top of his shoulder, steadying him. He grabbed the hilt of the dagger with his other hand, and just that touch made Jaskier suppress the urge to scream, the dagger burning in his shoulder.

“I’m going to count down from three to one, and then I will remove the dagger, okay?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier nodded again, tears forming in his eyes.

Geralt started the countdown, and Jaskier braced himself, clutching his sides tightly.

“Three.”

Jaskier closed his eyes.

“Two.” 

He took a deep breath.

“One.”

A tear rolled down Jaskier’s cheek as Geralt grabbed the hilt of the dagger more forcefully, and then, at once, pulled it back, hard, tearing the dagger from Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier screamed. The sound echoed through the forest, despite the piece of wood in his mouth. His shoulder was burning, aching, and it felt like he couldn’t breathe because of the pain. He gasped for air, lurching forward. He felt the blood trickle down his back, flowing freely. He could even smell his own blood.

He was breathing deeply, quicker and quicker, gasping for air. He felt Geralt steadying him, supporting him, but the pain that was coursing through his body was too much. It was too much. He felt like he couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. He clutched his sides, harder, trembling.

He heard Geralt talking, but he didn’t register the words the other man said. All he could feel was the pain. The pain, which kept coursing through his body with every movement, every exhale, every blink, every thought.

Then it all became too much. Jaskier felt his eyes roll back into his skull, and succumbed to sweet, dark nothingness.

\--

He was awakened by the sounds of a campfire, the crackling noises pulling him from a fitful slumber. 

Not that it had been a slumber, really. He remembered passing out, but nothing after that. Yet here he was, laying on the forest floor beside a crackling campfire.

He tried to sit up, but put too much weight on his right shoulder, and pain coursed through his body, an aching, dull pain. He gasped, loudly, and fell back down onto the forest floor, which was not the wisest move, as the impact with the ground sent a fresh wave of pain through his body.

He took a shuddering breath, and tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t understand why this wound hurt so much, while the wound in his thigh barely hurt at all. Maybe the other wound hadn’t been as deep. Or maybe the one on his shoulder was getting infected. _Oh Melitele _, he thought. He felt himself starting to spiral. What if the wound was really infected? What if it would need to be amputated? He would never be able to play the lute again. Or what if it was already too late and he would die of the infection in a mere matter of hours? How long did he have left?__

____

____

He had closed his eyes, and was startled when he heard Geralt’s voice.

“Jaskier. Are you awake?”

His throat was dry, and his voice hoarse, but he managed to reply. “I’m awake.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I was stabbed two times in the last two days.” Had it been two days? He didn’t know how long he had slept. It seemed like an eternity had passed since the dragon hunt had ended. So much had happened since then.

“Hmm. How’s your shoulder?”

“Painful. I’m worried it might get infected and-”

“It won’t get infected.”

“How can you be so sure? Tragically not all of us have supernatural healing abilities or ready-made potions to chug down when needed.”

“Because I cleaned your wound. I dressed it. If there’s anything I know, it’s how to take care of a wound. You should know this by now, surely.”

“Oh,” Jaskier replied, somehow dumbfounded. He opened his eyes and sat up, very slowly, careful not to put too much weight on his injured shoulder. He looked at his shoulder, and sure enough, there was some white cloth wrapped around his shoulder. He noticed that he wasn’t wearing his own shirt anymore, but one of Geralt’s spare shirts. Fair enough. His own shirt had become very bloody.

Suddenly, Jaskier felt very vulnerable. He hadn’t expected Geralt to clean and dress his wound. He also realized that they weren’t in the same place they’d been earlier. They had moved. Geralt must have carried him. Maybe Geralt did care more for him than he’d let on.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

“It’s the least I could do. I almost got you killed.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Jaskier replied, looking at the other man with raised eyebrows.

“Do you remember our plan? You were supposed to distract the Reavers, and I would sneak up on them, so that we’d have the element of surprise on our side.”

Jaskier did remember. “It was a great plan. Fool-proof, surely?”

Geralt scoffed. “Unfortunately, no. I heard you talking to them, waiting for the right time to attack, when I encountered some Reavers who were hunting. Spears and all.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Nothing I won’t heal from. They were stronger and more skilled than I expected. It took some time to take them down. Eventually knocked two of them unconscious, but the third one was a lot more stubborn. She isn’t dead, but she will need some time to recover. I don’t think they’ll come after us again.”

“But there were more. I didn’t fight them all. I think I killed one of them,” Jaskier explained, guilt sitting heavily upon his chest, the realization that he had probably killed another man within the span of one or two days fully dawning on him now. He had nearly severed the shoulder of one of the men he fought. Surely, that man wouldn’t be alive anymore.

“I think some of them decided to leave when I killed Grahm. I knocked two down before I attacked him, but there were more, I think. I didn’t check on anyone, but I don’t think there was anyone that was dead. Save Grahm, that is. There was a man who was bleeding heavily from his shoulder, but he was still breathing.”

Jaskier also realized Geralt had now killed for him. There was no way around it. He had killed Grahm for Jaskier. Spare one life, end another. Kill one man to protect another.

His head started to spin, and he felt overwhelmed. He felt blood rush to his head, felt a pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach. The world seemed to come at him at once, overpowering him.

Not only had he killed a man, he had injured another, and now Geralt had killed for him. To save his life. Knowing that felt like a burden, a hefty burden he had to now forever carry with him. But he couldn’t understand. He just couldn’t.

Jaskier took a deep breath, asking the only question on his mind. 

“Why?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular updating? Idk her! jk i had a lot of midterms and even a dissertation proposal to hand in, so finding time to write has been though!
> 
> Hope y'all like this update :) can't believe this fic is almost at 1k hits!


	8. Weight of Living

There it was, once again. That lingering silence.

“Why what?” Geralt finally asked, though Jaskier suspected that Geralt understood what Jaskier had asked, had implied.

Jaskier took a deep, albeit shaky breath, before he spoke. “Why did you kill him?”

That was what he asked, but what he really wanted to know was _why did you save me?_

Maybe Geralt’s outburst after the dragon hunt had affected him more than he had initially thought. Or maybe the fight had dragged up some unpleasant memories and thoughts, ones which he had tried so hard to repress, to forget. 

Geralt stared at him, cocking his head ever so slightly. “You were about to die, Jaskier. He was about to kill you. It was you or him.”

“I know. I just… I feel guilty for forcing you to be in such a position. I know you don’t speak of Blaviken often, Geralt, but I know how what happened there weighs upon your mind, your psyche, your entire being. And I hate that I put you in a position in which you felt like you had to kill someone.” Jaskier replied, biting his lip. “I don’t want you to feel like a killer, a murderer. Or worse, what they called you after Blaviken. A monster.”

“I kill monsters for a living. People may call me a monster, but that doesn't necessarily make me one.” Geralt paused for a moment, staring off into the distance for a moment, clearly considering something.

He spoke again a few seconds later. “I think there is something you’re not telling me. Or asking me. And I think I know what it is.”

Jaskier felt that awful pit of dread in his stomach again, weighing him down. Geralt had understood him better than he had expected. Because the question he had been too afraid to ask was _why didn’t you let me die? ___

____

____

“I couldn’t let you die, Jaskier,” Geralt said, as if reading his mind. After a moment he continued talking, slowly. “I care about you. I know what I said after the dragon hunt was horrible, and wrong. I know that. And I am so sorry for what I said. But please, don’t let those words affect you, if that is what is troubling you. You-” Geralt paused for a second, “-you matter to me. I couldn’t let him kill you.”

Jaskier exhaled, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He felt tears welling up at the back of his eyes, but he tried to hold them back. “Thank you,” he managed, before the floodgates did open, tears rolling down his face. He let out a sob, a gut-wrenching sob that made his whole body ache.

“It’s good to hear. Truly. You know I care about you, too,” he replied, another sob coming out. He hated this, crying, appearing weak, but he couldn’t stop himself. The words Geralt had said eased his very soul, yet he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed.

He was silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, calming himself, before expressing that which he had been avoiding.

“This whole debacle, from the dragon hunt until now, has forced me to confront some memories that I have tried so hard to forget. To repress.”

Geralt looked at him, a puzzled look on his face, before standing up, and sitting down next to Jaskier. He then, much to Jaskier’s surprise, hugged him. 

The hug was awkward, and Jaskier couldn’t really reciprocate the hug without moving his injured shoulder, but none of that mattered. He closed his eyes and let himself sit in the other man’s warmth, which was all that mattered. He felt tears falling down his face again, but he didn’t care. 

They stayed like that for a while, or at least, that’s how it felt to Jaskier. Geralt eventually let go, and moved around, so that he was now facing Jaskier.

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, letting out a heavy exhale. 

Geralt smiled. “I think it was long overdue.”

Now Jaskier was smiling, too. “Maybe it was.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, comfortable silence, before Jaskier had found it in him to speak again. To find the words, to explain. Explain his past. He found it ironic that for someone whose whole craft was dedicated to words, he could scarcely find the words he needed. The words he wanted.

“I know I never really talked about my past, my family. Not even after all these years on the road.”

Geralt nodded, encouragingly.

“Though I have crafted the image of Jaskier the travelling bard for myself, quote craftily I might add, that version of me is not entirely true. Nor is it entirely me. It might be who I am now, but it is not who I once was. Who I was meant to be. I am from Lettenhove. A viscount from Lettenhove. I guess you have gathered this much.”

Geralt nodded again, seemingly careful not to interrupt Jaskier.

Jaskier took a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air, as if that would lessen the memories he was about to revisit.

“Lettenhove was about what you would expect. Small, but not too small. The people were nice, mostly. Enough traders passed through to provide goods, gossip, and news. The house I grew up in was quite big,but homely, and sat at the edge of town. The forest was my backyard. I spent a lot of time outside, even from a young age. I preferred being outside, inside I just felt cooped up. I wanted to roam, explore. My parents didn’t mind me being outside at all, and encouraged me to go outside as much as I could. They were often outside too, and I often picked blueberries with my mother.”

Jaskier smiled at the memory, remembering those early days spent outside with his parents, the sweet days of summer and spring spent in the green forests. He remembers the feeling of grass underneath his bare feet, the sun high in the sky, beaming down, the sensation of running through a meadow.

Jaskier sighed, interrupting himself. “As I got older, I learned how to fight with a sword, how to converse with nobles and royalty, how to act, how to dress, how to speak, how to behave. My parents were preparing me for the life of a noble. I didn’t mind learning new things, I have always had a penchant for discovering new things, but the life I now had ahead of me seemed intimidating,” Jaskier explained. “The fighting was simultaneously the worst and the best part of it all. I found myself to be able to move freely, and think freely while holding a sword. The movements itself were liberating. Fighting made me feel as free as I had felt outside when I was younger, free of thought and free of obligations. It was just me against the world. I was quite apt at sword fighting, too. I started training at age twelve with a real sword. My parents had commissioned the local blacksmith. The sword the blacksmith created, Jargo was his name, I believe, was a thing of beauty. The pommel was beautifully embellished, and the blade itself has beautiful carvings on it. The way the sword fit like a glove in my hand felt so good, so natural. I felt invincible.”

Jaskier paused again, dreading what he knew would come, the inevitable conclusion.

“I was fourteen when I had almost mastered the sword. Never like you did, mind you,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely at Geralt. 

“But for a fourteen year old I was pretty damn good at handling a sword. I was becoming quite the viscount. I had mastered the art of the sword, and I had learned how to act among nobility, how to speak, how to dress, even how to eat. I knew it all, perfected it all. My parents, they were so proud of me then. I remember their faces, beaming with pride when they taught me something new. They made me feel loved. They were supportive of almost everything I did, and they were the first to encourage me to pick up the lute. We both know how that’s ended,” Jaskier said, laughing. “Yet, something seemed to be missing. No matter what I did, what I learnt, I felt restless. The life of a viscount that was so close to me, that I was nearing more and more everyday, terrified me. I never told my parents, but it terrified me. The more I learnt, the more restricted I felt. I missed the freedom I had once enjoyed. But I knew I could not enjoy the freedom of my youth again, the carelessness of childhood.”

Again, Jaskier paused. The memory he dreaded most was pushing its way to the surface of his mind, slowly but surely.

“One night, when I was fifteen, an intruder came into our house. It was the dead of night, and I heard an unfamiliar pair of footsteps in the hall, and the sound of doors being opened and closed softly, like someone who would not want to be noticed would open and close doors. I felt the intruder getting closer, their footsteps getting closer, until they were right outside my door. I slipped out of bed, and grabbed ahold of my sword, which I had brought with me to polish. It is a decision I have regretted ever since. When the door opened, a man stepped in. I didn’t know who he was. He was carrying a satchel across his shoulder, and I could see a chain of pearl hanging haphazardly from the bag, almost in a comical fashion. He took one look in my room, and he saw me, and stepped inside, brandishing a sword in his hand. I was terrified. His face was twisted into a manic expression, pure malice on his face, and within two seconds he was in front of me. I was overwhelmed, and felt lost in the moment, and the man, he slammed me against the wall, and put his sword against my neck, to stop me from screaming, pressing it hard enough to immediately draw blood. He smiled, in a way I will remember until my dying days.” Jaskier said, taking a shaky breath, steadying himself. He suddenly felt extremely aware of his environment, of the flickering campfire, of trees rustling around them, of the pain throbbing in his shoulder.

“I knew then I was going to die. I felt my sword in my hand, but all those years of training seemed to have vanished in an instant. The sword felt foreign, heavy. The man dug the blade in deeper, and I knew I would die if I didn’t do something. I shoved the man away from me, with all my might, and he stumbled and fell. He didn’t utter a sound, and stood up, and came at me again, with his sword at the ready. I felt like I was going to die, and I did all that I could think of, and I swung my sword at him. I hit his arm, and he just grinned, and smiled, and he came forward, and struck at me. He struck me, and I felt blood blossoming over my chest, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for air, and he was laughing. He came at me again, and my sword met his, and suddenly everything I had been taught came back to me at once. I ducked, and blocked his blows. He continued to strike, and this routine, this dance, continued for what seemed like an eternity, until he faltered just once, and I struck him. Suddenly my arm seemed to think for itself, and my sword slashed against his neck, drawing blood. At first I thought I had just broken the skin, but the blood kept on flowing, and flowing, and suddenly his eyes rolled upward, and then inward, and he fell to the floor. He didn’t rise again.”

Jaskier swallowed, trying to ignore the ache in his heart. “My parents suddenly came rushing in. They must have heard the noise. They saw the man, dead, on the floor, and me, bloodied, with my sword clutched tightly in my hand. I must have looked like a mess, a bloody mess. My mother screamed at the sight before her, and my father just stared at me. Their faces, Geralt, their faces,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. “They were terrified. My mother looked at me like I was a stranger, and my father, he couldn’t speak. He just stared. I said something, I don’t remember what I said, but they looked abhorred, and I just, I couldn’t take it. The looks on their faces had told me enough. I felt like a different person, a stranger in my own skin. I realized what happened, what I had done, and I just- I just ran. I ran past my parents, through the door, and I left. I left. I left in the middle of the night, and I haven’t returned since. I haven’t been able to.”

Once he said it, all of it, he felt empty. Drained. He couldn’t look Geralt in the eye. He felt ashamed, and sad. Most of all, he felt sad. He felt the grief he had once repressed seize him again, draw him back under. His whole body ached. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, in a tone he hadn’t heard before. It only made him feel worse.

“You couldn’t have done anything else. It was you or him, wasn’t it? Who can blame you for wanting to live?” Geralt asked, looking him in the eyes in such a way that Jaskier wanted to cry. There was a certain tenderness, forgiveness in those golden eyes.

“I know. I know that now. I think I have always known that. That doesn’t take away the awful gut-wrenching guilt I feel whenever I think about that night. Seeing that man revel in such violence, seeing him die, bleed out, a smile still on his face. The way I felt, the guilt, the grief for a version of me that died along with that man, the pain and horror on my parents faces, their underlying disgust and terror. I felt like I had done something irreversible, something that could never be undone. I felt like a monster, Geralt.”

“I am sorry you felt that way. And I am sorry that happened to you. But you mustn’t blame yourself, you really shouldn’t. Killing one man does not make you a monster.”

Jaskier laughed, a dry laugh, that made his chest ache. “I wish it was that easy. Maybe killing someone doesn’t make you a monster, but it sure does make you feel like one. When I left, it felt like the right thing to do. It really did. I wanted to prevent causing my parents any pain. And I know, _I know_ , I failed miserably at that. They might have forgiven me, understood me, over time. But the fact of the matter is that they would never again see me for how I was. And I can’t blame them, for neither can I.” Jaskier paused, almost out of breath due to speaking so fast. “After almost a year on the road I realized that I had probably hurt my parents more by leaving, but by then I couldn’t return. I couldn’t face them. I realized it was not just them I was running from, but the future ahead of me. I was driven away by that man, the man who almost killed me, but I was also running from my future, my responsibilities. I realized that much later. I missed the freedom of my youth, and my response was to run the fuck away. I was, and still am, a coward. I can’t go back, Geralt. I just can’t. I don’t have it in me.”

“You’re not a coward, Jaskier.”

Jaskier scoffed ever so slightly. “I am not looking for a rebuttal or praise, Geralt. I know what happened and what will always happen. I will never be able to leave my past behind me, or return home. And this mountain, this damned mountain, it has only made matters worse. I swore that I would never touch a weapon again, yet here we are. I killed a man. Injured more. And every strike I made, I felt. I felt a piece of me crumble, wash away. I swore I would never hurt another person again, not if I could help it, prevent anything bad or serious from happening, and look where that’s gotten me.”

“But you couldn’t help it, Jaskier. It was you or him.”

 _And that’s exactly the problem_ , Jaskier thought. “That choice is not mine to make. It has never been mine to make. It’s not a choice. Survival is everything, but it is also nothing. If you survive but feel like a piece of shit the whole time, your whole life, then what is it worth? Those men I killed, their death made me die, too. Knowing I took the life of another, that made me- makes me- feel like I am slowly dying, coming undone. After all, what is my life worth, if the cost of my life has been the death of others?”

“It is worth something to me,” Geralt replied, slowly. 

For once, it was Jaskier who was silent for a long time, before he finally replied.

“Hmm.”

 _Maybe that is enough_ , he thought. But the dread, the grief, the rage, it remained. Because what else is there to feel after all these years? Fear turns into anger, anger into rage, rage into grief, and then the cycle starts anew. The past is never the past, it is both the present and the future, this reality and the next. The past determines the present and the future, just as much as the future defines the past and the present. 

After all, there is no outrunning destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I guess that's it, huh? Forgive me for getting a bit philosophical at the end, there. I might add an epilogue though, let me know if y'all would like one!


End file.
